SO, CHECK IT OUT
Awright, there's this movie called Soapdish where Sally Field is an aging soap opera star who, for attention, goes to the mall. There, her agent (Whoopie Goldberg) starts screaming "Its her, it's (insert the name here), it's really YOU, isn't it?". Sally whips off her shades and about 25 women run up for autographs and adoration. It's a great movie, with Kevin Kline and Robert Downey, Jr. in addition to the ladies mentioned above.
OK, so what? Well, that is what happens here on 10 Long, UCSF Medical Center whenever "Mr. Moss" strides, er I mean is wheeled, out of the freight elevator and gently dumped in a room. I would be more gratified if I simply visited garbed as a regular guy, but alas, I am an irregular kinda guy who only drops in when medically instructed. And so it was this past Tuesday.
Waking up with cold-like symptoms and a 100+ fever, it was a no-brainer after placing the call to Transplant Services. Unable to stay awake, Dear Cheryl did most of the packing for what would just have to be a longer-than-hoped-for stay. We arrived at the ED with me having no personal memory of the trip, as I slept 97.3% of the way. On went the IV antibiotic and on came the questions from each and every visitor. "Diarrhea? No. Cough? No. Vomiting? Uh, no. Shortness of pants? No. Inability to stay awake in the middle of a sentence? Yes." This last one became the focus as the ED docs brought in a physician from ICU to judge whether my decreased mental capacity warranted admission to that intriguing unit. I guess I woke up enough to wave that fate off, but again 10 Long loomed in our immediate future.
Since that admission I have returned to (relative) normalcy insofar as I am functioning quite well. Besides writing this blog post, listening to kick-ass music, and recognizing the kind greetings of many of the folks who work here, I am remarkably stable and well. It is strangely comfortable, oddly enough, primarily because I am such a bitchin' dude and they ADORE me. Yeah, right, it is the people here who create it, and everyone involved seems intent on keeping a fat old transplant recipient motoring on down that ol' Transplant Turnpike. Lucky for me.
So, the search continues for the elusive cause(s) of all this. Could be a virus of unknown name, a bacteria, fluid, or simple but violent flatulence. See, the average person, including the Queen her own self, farts 14 times a day, so naturally after the fartoscopy results came in, that is suspected. Additional face masks have been issued to all staff here on 10 Long in case that is the main villain. The possible treatment in that case is too gruesome for even these liberalized pages.
SOME OTHER STUFF
Along the same route (see above) I was pleased to be selected to address a group of second-year med students recently, right here at Palacio Parnassio. Cheryl accompanied me where we met up with Laura, a CTDN clinical coordinator, and Ashley, a donor wife. Laura spoke first to this elective class on transplants about the process. Then Ashley shared that she had lost her husband, age 31, in a snowboarding accident. Ashley, then seven months pregnant with their first child, experienced a tragic loss but, knowing his wishes, was able to avoid handling anymore unexpected developments at that difficult time. She is still feeling the loss every day, but does take comfort in that her husband saved several lives. Pretty incredible stuff.
Then it was time for Your Correspondent to lecture, just as the assorted to-go lunches were opened. The aromas of Panda Express blended with Palio, Subway (wait, you can't smell a Subway sammich!), and Moffitt Cafe as the speaker (me) emitted a noticeable stomach growl. During my impassioned address I did see one young man in the back of the room with his head on his iPod, a bit of drool pooling on the darkened screen. Did anyone hear "Bueller..... Bueller..... Bueller"? Maybe not, but it woulda been hella cool.
OH, YEAH, ONE MORE THING
Several other notable occurrences took place this month, including a swell Dinner with the Gang, a successful 49'ers Playoff Party courtesy Sandy C., and The Sleep Study from Hell. This last one is best left to your vivd imaginations, and it is probably on YouTube somewhere. If so, knock yourselves out but make sure no one under 17 is admitted.
Oh, the One More Thing thing. Faithful readers (and if not, why not?) will recall my account of an experience I had on March 21, 2010 in the wake of my transplant. I was sent nighty-night to sleep on a bed alarm to assure my safety, and remember, it played Take Me Out to the Ballgame< on the occasion of a wee-hour ("wee" hour...get it?) comfort break.
I was doing a lap of the floor this visit when I heard the unmistakable sound of Mary Had a Little Lamb, one of my childhood faves. It instantly jumped into my (what's left of a) brain.....S**T! Izzat a BED ALARM? My innate curiosity was instantly aroused (aroused...get it?) and I rushed breathlessly back to my quarters. No, I had plenty of breath, Dr. Lung Guy (one of the fine, young Asian docs here who look like a younger version of Dr. Duncan H. except for the Asian thing and all) and when I arrived, there were my very own set of quarters laid out on the bed. After reassembling all four, I was able to call for my nurse, the very excellent Meg.
Meg and her student Emily arrived (breathlessly) and I asked "Did I hear a bed alarm playing Mary Had a Little Lamb? The one whose fleece was white as snow?" "Why, yes you did" she said. My mind raced, asking what other models of bed alarms were available, and could I get one on Amazon to use at home when I, you know, have to, uh, Go? To my amazement she told me there is a SELECTION of melodies! A vast array of my favorite artists leapt to mind; Joe Bonamassa (on my headphones right this minute), Eagles, Stones, Elton, Liberace....the possibilities seemed endless.
But, no, hold on there, pardner. There is only one version, and it plays the two selectons mentioned above OR a simple and irritating regular old "beep beep beep . But, Meg kindly told me, Ballpark is great, on account o' the Giants and all. With due respect to SF fans everywhere, my preference would be Back Home Again in Indiana which truly brings tears to my eyes every time Jim Nabors belts it out at the Indy 500. "Gentlemen and Danica, Start Your Engines" indeed.
And there is the story on bed alarms and other matters of the moment, here on this fine Groundhog Day, 2012.
Bob/Irv
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